Visit of visits, Post of posts, Guide of guides, you get the idea

Señor Scowly -- a.k.a The Crabby Doorman -- quit. We didn't even get a warning, no chance to say goodbye, not that he would have wanted to say goodbye to us anyway.

We came down one morning expecting to see his usual frowny face opening the door for us all angry and jerky-like, ripping that door open as if the door had disparaged his mother, but no. We saw only smiley Carlos training a new guy, smiley Arturo.

I'm going to miss Señor Scowly. I'm going to miss the times I stood outside the door of the building, hands cupped on either side of my face to peer through the glass, only to see Señor Scowly standing in the middle of the foyer listening to angsty music blaring from his iPhone, his eyes closed, singing every word from the heart as if the words were ripping said heart right out of his chest.

I would knock on the door but his angsty music was pretty loud. It would sometimes take a handful of minutes for him to open his eyes and see me standing there, waving hopefully from the other side of the glass. He'd open the door but would also make it clear by his facial expression I'd ruined his moment.

I'm going to miss approaching the building and wondering if I'll actually get in. Plus everyone in Mexico smiles at me all the time; it was refreshing to have just one who unabashedly hated me and didn't care if I knew it.

My family was just here for a visit and it was the best visit in the history of visits. In other words, brace yourselves for what could be the longest post in the history of posting.

It will never get old.

Just walking around and suddenly bam, mariachi party 

My family's visit was made more special by the fact it nearly didn't happen. Dad has been having trouble with numbness in his leg that comes on without warning, making it difficult to walk and putting him at risk for falling. He decided a couple days before they were to arrive that he couldn't come, that he would be too preoccupied with his walking troubles to enjoy the visit and would therefore bring the rest of us down, too. He wanted my mom and brother to come without him.

Well hell no, Dad. That just will not do. That WILL NOT DO.

I'm happy to say Dad changed his mind the day of the flight. We talked beforehand and eventually came to the conclusion that even if he didn't feel comfortable doing the walking tours or moseying through museums for hours, just sitting here in our apartment with its view of Mexico City, or sitting in the rental house we'd booked for a weekend with its view of San Miguel de Allende, was better than sitting in his house alone in Colorado.

Plus, the food. You don't need legs to enjoy the food and isn't the food the absolute best reason to come to Mexico? Food. FOOOOD.

(Related -- my pants don't fit anymore.)

I talked to my sister, Raba, before my parents and brother arrived and we both adamantly agreed that climbing the pyramids at Teotihuacan was out of the question given Dad's leg. It can go numb without warning and he could fall all the way down the steep stone stairs, especially since several sections do not have anything to hold onto.

We had to go see it, for sure, because Teotihuacan is one of the most impressive places in the world but we would stay down on the ground. No doubt about it, Dad should not go up there.

A few days later, of course, we went up there.

taking a breather halfway up Pyramid of the Sun

(Pyramid of the Moon lurking anciently in the background)

My dad is a strong willed man and the poster child for dogged determination but he's not reckless. He knew he could do it so I knew he could do it. But I still climbed behind him the whole time, arms outstretched and thinking, "oh my god oh my god oh my god if he falls, Raba is going to kill me."

"Chill out daughters, it wasn't that hard."

Top of Pyramid of the Sun

Mom and Dad strolling through Teotihuacan like the bosses they are.

We took a long weekend and rented a house in the gorgeous colonial town of San Miguel de Allende. San Miguel is commonly known as "Gringolandia" given its large population of retired English speakers. There's also a popular joke about needing an American passport to live there.

Well you can't blame them, those English speakers know a good thing when they see it. San Miguel de Allende is one of the most perfect little colonial towns. It is almost too perfect, too pretty, too charming, too UNESCO heritage-y. I felt the urge to break a few windows to take it down a peg, or at least smear some dog shit around on them to mess it up a little bit. Is it normal to be jealous of a town? I have problems.

But look at this stupid perfect place.

(pic courtesy of Dad)

(pic courtesy of Mom)

(pic courtesy of me)

Dad walking around the back terrace of our rental house.

See what I mean? Needs dog shit on the windows.

Our rental house was smack in the middle of the action, just one block from the main square. The owner of the house was there to show us around when we arrived and we all detected a slight edge, something slightly off about him. He was nice but it seemed he had to work hard at it, as his teeth were often clenched. All was made clear later when Alex and I found several How To Control Your Explosive Rage books in his bookshelf. Then we were all like, "Yes, that was totally it, he was just trying hard not to punch us."

(I won him over later when I emailed him several times asking about the art in his house, which was spectacular. He loved talking about his art. And then we were friends, phew.)

There were many weddings that weekend. San Miguel weddings involve the most delightful traditions. There are ten-foot-tall puppets representing the bride and groom dancing around outside the church, and a "tequila burro" that walks in front of the post-ceremony procession through the cobblestone streets from which tequila shots are served from barrels on his sides, and a traveling mariachi band that accompanies the procession and makes everyone within earshot happy.

There were at least half a dozen wedding processions through the streets in two days. They looked like so much fun, I'm now planning to divorce Alex and re-marry him in San Miguel de Allende -- that is, if he doesn't piss me off in between. We'll see.

This wedding celebration walked past our rental house after midnight.

I ran out in my pajamas to take a picture of them.

Look at that tequila burro.

As for what else we did, we did a lot. We hit the must-sees, such as the Frida Kahlo Museum and the Diego Rivera murals at the Belles Artes and Palacio Nacional. 

We also ate lunch in a cave --

hours before everybody else because nobody here eats lunch at noon

-- and we visited an ancient archaeological site in the middle of nowhere called Cañada de la Virgen accompanied by the most enthusiastic guide who's ever guided. Our guide, Alberto, is an archaeologist and he loves his job very much. His eyes would regularly glow and widen, near manic with excitement, so on fire was he with his chosen field. It sometimes felt he was about to lose his composure entirely, grab us all by our slender shoulders and shake us, shake the love of archaeology right into us, goddammit!

He was an extremely likable and extremely enthusiastic gem of a tour guide. 

Look how hard everyone is trying to keep up with Alberto

and the mass quantity of excited information flying at their faces.

Bala and Coco enjoying archaeology

After the archaeology, Alberto took us to a nearby Mexican ranch for a traditional Mexican lunch. There, sitting on the back porch of a humble abode somewhere outside San Miguel de Allende, I ate the best mole sauce I've ever had. It was the best mole in the history of moles.

MOLE!

I learned at this lunch you cannot take a picture of mole sauce

without it looking like poop sauce.

 Just take my word, it was perfect.

I don't think the visit could have gone better. My parents and brother fell in love with Mexico, with the warmth of its people and the beauty and history of the country. I think they fell in love a little bit with our driver, Mario, too. Mario drove us everywhere, helped us communicate when Spanish failed us, carried bags, acted as tour guide, bought Mom medicine when she caught my cold, made us dinner reservations, and on and on and on -- and he did it all with a laugh and a smile.

My family didn't want to leave and I didn't want them to leave because even after ten days here, I still had about two weeks worth of stuff to show them. That's the beauty of Mexico City.

I'm so glad you made the decision to come, Dad.

Because someone had to play with Coco

and her bouncy balloon thing

for hours.

And I'm glad it wasn't me.

Happy belated Mother's Day to all the mamas out there. Mexican Mother's Day was last Wednesday. It's a big deal around here, I was wished Happy Mother's Day wherever I went and was given roses by the security guard when I left a nearby department store. Coco even had the day off from school in honor of the occasion. My Mother's Day gift is having a kid home from school? We should talk about that one, Mexico.

We only have a few months left here. I don't want to go home. I will hang onto Mexico by my fingernails until someone pries them away and shoves me onto a plane because I love this place -- plus my home country has gone and lost its damn mind. It's a real shitshow up there.

In the meantime, I will eat mole, and smile at the people, and enjoy the sun,
and pretend it is not the end of the world as we know it.
MJ

Gridlock Roadblock

Have you ever had a fight with your spouse?  Have you ever had a fight with your spouse and it's the same fight you've had hundreds if not thousands if not millions of times over the course of your relationship?  Have you ever gotten so "good" at this fight that as soon as the topic is mentioned, you just skip the fight part because you already know it by heart and go straight to the being mad at each other part, arms crossed, not speaking?

It's called gridlock and it's a real bitch.

Alex and I love each other very much but man, we are sick of "that one fight."  Our fight tends to sneak up on us when we least expect it.  An innocent comment made by one of us while out for a nice walk on the beach will trigger the anger of the other and suddenly we're scrambling for pieces of driftwood with which to bludgeon each other.  Similarly, there were several romantic dinners ruined over the years because I suddenly wanted to smash his face into his mashed potatoes.

The same thought always goes through my mind as this is happening: "What the hell is going on?  We were laughing five minutes ago, how did we get here so quickly... I DON'T CARE PUT FACE IN POTATOES."

As my astrologically inclined friends are quick to point out, both Alex and I are fire signs and live up to the reputation of two fire signs in a relationship.  Neither of us seems willing nor able to back down from imminent marital conflict.  We both just roll our sleeves up -- "Oh, it is ON" -- and paw at the earth like two bulls about to charge.

(The good part of being fire signs?  The making up part.  Being firey has its privileges, trust it.)

Here's where I'm going with all this -- Alex and I attended a marriage seminar a couple weekends ago. The marriage workshop was run by Dr. John Gottman and his wife, Dr. Julie Gottman, who are the preeminent marriage researchers in all of the world.  Over forty years of research have given the Gottman research team the ability to predict divorce with over 90% accuracy after observing a couple in conversation.  That's an impressive fact but it also instilled some fear --we were afraid of walking into the seminar and having the Drs. Gottman point at us and yell, "DOOMED!"

It wasn't like that, thankfully.  The Drs. Gottman are funny and their information straightforward and accessible.  Alex and I got a lot out of it.  We're doing very well at Building Love Maps and Turning Towards each other, and trying hard to avoid the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse while focusing on Soft Start-Ups*.  We're down with Gottman.

*A Soft Start-Up should be a personal statement about the speaker only, and not involve any judgment of the other person.  For example, instead of this --

Me:  I'm so sick of your sh*tty-ass driving, you're a goddamn lunatic on the road and a menace to society.  Pull over now and let me take the wheel before you kill us all, jerk.

I should say:

Me:  You know, I feel really anxious when I'm not in control of my personal locomotion.  Would you mind pulling over and letting me drive before you kill us all, jerk?** 

**Dang. Botched it.  It takes practice, people, I'm working on it.

The second day -- the day that addressed gridlocked conflicts -- was a hard one for all who attended the Gottman marriage workshop.  There were many tears and defensive postures, many silent couples who couldn't even look each other in the eye.  A few people stormed out.  Many, including us, had to wave our blue "Assistance Needed" cards in the air until a roving Gottman-trained therapist could get to us and talk us off the anger ledge.  Marriage, yee-haw.

In the middle of all this longstanding pain and marital suffering was a pair of newlyweds.  They couldn't have been more than 22 or 23 years old, the seminar obviously given to them as a wedding present -- or perhaps a wedding prerequisite -- by a concerned parent.

During our "break-out time," when each couple retreated to private corners of the room to work on Gottman-prescribed relationship exercises, the newlyweds made out.  I mean they really made out.  While other couples cried, and glared, and sat in silence, they giggled, she sat on his lap, they groped.  But what they were really doing was pissing off the sea of middle-aged couples surrounding them whose marriages were in various states of disrepair.

By the end of the seminar, the newlyweds had succeeded in uniting the other 200 of us against them.  You would see embattled spouses walk past them, nudge each other, smile and whisper, "I give 'em two years."  Seasoned couples glanced at other seasoned couples and rolled their eyes in unison -- which is a sign of contempt and one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse so all of our relationships with the newlyweds are likely headed for rupture.  Good riddance, insensitive jerks.

Here's the good news we took away from Gottman: conflict is not bad.  It's healthy.  It's important. How you handle the conflict is the key to staying married.  I won't get into the details but here's a summary of the seminar:

bludgeoning with driftwood = bad
smashing face into mashed potatoes = bad
all the stuff they taught us to do at the workshop = good
donuts = delicious


Alex and I stayed at a downtown hotel for the seminar weekend.  Our trusty and loyal babysitter, "Saint Babysitter," stayed at our house with the kids.  I debated beforehand whether or not to show her our house alarm system but ultimately decided to do it.  I thought she would feel more secure in our strange neighborhood if the alarm was on while she slept.

Saint Babysitter let Oscar out that night before she went to bed.  When she let him back in, she unknowingly did not close the door firmly enough to latch completely.  Then she set the alarm and went upstairs.

An hour later, a strong wind blew the front door open and the alarm went off.  Saint Babysitter came running downstairs in her pajamas to see the door standing wide open at 1:00 a.m.  The alarm was blaring so loudly next to her head she wondered if she'd ever be able to hear the faint whisper of wind through trees again.

Saint Babysitter made a terrified tour of the downstairs to check for intruders hiding behind curtains.  Finding none, she went to disarm the system but her hands were shaking so badly she had a hard time shutting it down.

Our security company, noticing our lengthy alarm, called our cell phone contact numbers but as it was 1:00 in the morning, both Alex and I were asleep and didn't answer.  Back at home, Saint Babysitter took a few deep breaths, reset the alarm, and went back up to bed.  She was rattled but relieved it was over.

Twenty minutes later, as she was drifting off to sleep, the alarm went off again.  After promising herself she would never, ever come back to our hell house if she survived the night, Saint Babysitter ran back downstairs to find three large men in the entry hall.  They boomed, "Who are you?" and she yelled back, "Who are YOU?"

Our security company has a key to our house, you see.  When we didn't answer the monitoring station's calls but they could see the alarm had been turned off by someone, they sent a team to our house to save our sorry asses from whatever circumstances had befallen us.

Saint Babysitter noticed their security company uniforms and realized who they were but they were not so convinced about her.  She told them she was the babysitter.  They asked her name and, unfortunately, her name is the same as my name.  They looked down at the papers in their hands then looked back up incredulously as if to say, "What the hell kind of sick game you playing at, lady?"

The security team grilled her at length, took pictures of her and her drivers license, walked around the house, even poked their heads into the kids' room to make sure they were OK (the kids never woke up, oh to sleep like that again). Finally satisfied, they left.  I don't think Saint Babysitter even attempted to go back to sleep that night.  She just sat in the entry hall on an uncomfortable chair, hyper aware, vigilant, twitching.

It's good to know our monthly monitoring fee is going towards a system that works and will protect us from well-meaning babysitters far into the future.  Also, Stella the parakeet can now mimic the sound of the alarm and does so often.

We spent last week on the Olympic Peninsula for the kids' midwinter break.  Upon our return, we learned Alex's grandmother passed away.  It was not unexpected but it's awfully sad all the same.

Your family is going to miss you, Francoise.  You were a force of nature.  Oh, the stories they're going to tell about you at your funeral!  There will be more laughter than tears, and that's the best way to leave 'em, so nice work.   

the incomparable Francoise

(with the incomparable baby Lucien)

Gottman out,
MJ

Ode to a Hometown

(This is Part Two of Journey to the Center of the Country.  Part One is back there.)

Toledo, Ohio.  Place of my birth.  It's probably not the most glamorous of locations.  According to John Denver, "Saturday night in Toledo, Ohio is like being nowhere at all."  What a dick.

(RlP, John)

I thought Toledo was great growing up.  I had everything I needed to be happy: a big backyard, best friends as neighbors, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool at our nearby swim and tennis club.

My childhood best friend/neighbor (I'll call her "Muppet") and I regularly did what we called "a Toledo tour."  We walked to the end of our street and crawled through a hole in the fence to go hang out at the nearby mall.  Then we crossed the street to K-Mart to buy cheap make-up.  Then we walked to the hotel next door to ride the elevator up to the top floor and look out over the tops of our houses.  We ended our tour at Peaches Records where we bought-- gulp -- some of those fancy new cassette tapes.

We were 12 years old and would disappear for hours, no cell phones, no parents freaking out.  We came home when one of two things happened:  1) our mothers yelled our names out the back door or 2) the street lights came on. 

I remember driving in Toledo.  I thought it was overwhelming to drive in "the city."  Sometimes I had to sit for a full ten seconds before it was clear enough to make a left-hand turn, a period of time during which I would yell, "Oh my God, this is taking forever!"

In Seattle, of course, a person can sit for hours before accomplishing a left-hand turn, if they're ever allowed to make their turn at all.  Most of us give up and instead attempt a sequence of right-hand turns, with mixed results.

I haven't been back to my hometown since Christmas 2000, six months before Alex and I got married.  I'm a sentimental old fool so cried like one when I drove away from our house that last time.  It had been a happy place to grow up and I didn't think I'd ever see it again given my parents' impending move to Colorado.

Then came July 2013 --  HELLO, TOLEDO!   I AM IN YOU!

Ohio Mom and I drove to her parents' house first.  Their house looks the same.  The screen door makes the same sound when it slams.  The kitchen wallpaper is the same, the kitchen table nook is as cozy as it ever was.  I almost went into the den and pulled out the pull-out bed to sleep, as I'd done a countless number of times before.

Ohio Mom's parents were my second set of parents in high school.  My car could automatically drive to their house and I became an expert at avoiding the tree growing through the middle of their driveway.  I spent as much time sitting at their kitchen table talking to them as I did sitting at my own talking to my own.

It was wonderful to see them but Ohio Mom's parents soon laid some unwelcome truth bombs at my feet. Toledo was not the same.  And some of it would be hard to see.

I hugged them goodbye and got back into my car to begin my solo tour.  I started the tour at my high school, which was down the street from Ohio Mom's house.  The only problem was it was no longer there.

WHERE THE *#@! IS MY SCHOOL?

The football stadium is still there but it looks small and tired and sad.  Do you know how many hours I spent cheering and yelling in those bleachers?  I had to -- I had a bunch of boyfriends, real and imagined, out on that field.

I was anxious to go see my house.  Ohio Mom's parents had, just minutes before, told me a heartwarming story of a young woman who came to their door not long ago,  She told them she grew up in their house and would like to come in and see it again.  They, of course, let her in because they are wonderful people.  They gave her a tour and some lemonade and were rewarded with an effusive thank-you note several weeks later.

The same thing was going to happen to me.

I held my breath as I turned onto my street.  And then there she was --

That's our house.  That's our big backyard.  Do you know how many ten-year-old cartwheels it takes to get across that yard?  Billions!

Remember the Father's Day post from Paris where I mentioned the ex-boyfriend-inspired bonfire I set on the driveway?  It was right there.

I pulled around front and stared, tears in my eyes, every inch of the house bringing back an overwhelming number of memories and feelings.

Then a woman with mad eyes tore out the front door and yelled in a not-so-nice way,

"UMM, HELLO?  ARE YOU TAKING PICTURES OF MY HOUSE?"

Oh sh*t

I had to calm myself then, posse, and resist the strong urge to yell back, "THIS IS MY DAMN HOUSE, BITCH,  WE LIVED HERE OVER TWENTY YEARS NOW GET OUT OR DIE!"

I swallowed my true words and instead said sweetly, "Hi.  I grew up in this house.  I'm in town for my high school reunion and wanted to see it again.  I loved growing up in this house, would it be possible for me to come in for just a minute and see it again?

The response came curtly and through falsely smiling teeth:  "No, no, it's not a good time."  Then she went back inside and closed the door.

My heart.  Oh my heart.  Myyyyyy heeeeea.....

I immediately pulled into the driveway of Muppet's parents across the street and after a strong hug went on a vicious tirade about "the newbies."  They confirmed my suspicions -- the people who bought my family home are terrible human beings and will die friendless and alone.

Muppet's parents then delivered some more truth bombs to add to my rapidly growing truth bomb collection.  An important thing to know about Muppet's parents is they will give you the worst news of your life accompanied by raucous laughter so you're never really sure if you're hearing funny news or terrible news.


Muppet Mom:  Do you remember that cute tennis pro at the swim and tennis club? 
Me:  Yes! He was sooo dreamy and so nice.
Muppet Mom:  Well, he was arrested for making lewd phone calls HA HA HA HA.  He called women from a phone booth and pretended to be a Victoria's Secret representative HA HA HA HA.  He asked them progressively more personal questions about their lingerie needs while he masturbated in a phone booth HA HA HA HA.  He was caught in a phone booth with his pants down HA HA HA HA.
Me:  That's..... terrible?
Muppet Parents:  HA HA HA HA HA


Muppet Mom:  Remember that huge pool they had at the club, the one with a starring role in most of your precious childhood memories?
Me:  Yes, of course, it's one of my favorite places on earth!
Muppet Mom:  WELL IT'S GONE.  HA HA HA HA HA HA.


Muppet Mom:  There was a sinkhole in the middle of North Detroit Avenue last week.  It was huge.  A woman drove right into it.  HA HA HA HA.
Me:  Oh my God, is she OK?
Muppet Mom:  She was the principal of your old elementary school HA HA HA!
Me:  Oh.....wow....seriously, is she OK?
Muppet Mom:  HA HA. Would you like some lemonade?


I left her parents' house and drove to Muppet's house, where I was staying for the night.

This is why I call her Muppet.  She's got a collection problem.

We went to a typical Italian chain-type restaurant for dinner.  I considered ordering the butternut squash ravioli but then wondered aloud, "But it's not butternut squash season so.... where do you think they're sourcing their butternut squash?"  Muppet looked at me over her menu with furrowed brow and said flatly, "They're frozen, honey."

Whoops, I let my Seattle show.

Muppet also has a peculiar way of delivering news but her style is different from her mother's.  Muppet tends to summarize ridiculous situations into one long, flat, emotionless sentence.  Then it's over and she moves on. Here's just a sampling of Muppet bringing me up to speed on Toledo happenings.

Muppet:  Well, you know our friend Angela married our high school math teacher and a professional wrestler was the best man and they held the wedding in the basement of The Spaghetti Warehouse.
Me:  WHAT?  WHAT?
Muppet:  So how are the kids?

Muppet:  And our friend Ron -- well, he did five years in prison because he broke into some lady's house but then he walked straight home afterwards so the police just followed his footprints in the snow.  He saw our friend Angela, who married the math teacher, win the Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right while he was in prison.
Me:  ...... can we back up a minute?
Muppet:  So do you miss Paris?

Muppet:  Two years ago he burned down the back half of his house with a blowtorch.  We found him with his eyebrows singed off.  We bought him fire extinguishers for Christmas that year.
Me:  I surrender to your crazy-ass ways.
Muppet:  Cool.  Should we get dessert?

Muppet invited our other childhood friend/neighbor over to her house for drinks and jokes later that evening.  I'm going to call him Ant Boy because my most profound memory of him was when we climbed on top of a red anthill and got swarmed.  We started yelling and his mom bolted out of his house, stripped us naked there in the backyard and turned a hose on us.  We were old enough to be embarrassed by it.

Our parents would have been overjoyed to see the children they raised side-by-side all together again so we took a few terrible photos to share the occasion --

The next morning, I suggested to Muppet we do another "Toledo tour!"  She asked, "You sure about that, babe?"  and I said "YES!"  and she said "Brace yourself."

Muppet!  Look!  That's where we crawled through the fence to go to the.....

mall.

Then we went to...

 K-mart.

The tall hotel?  The one where we could see the whole world from the top floor?

Abandoned.  With broken windows to match broken dreams.

The Peaches Records is gone, too, and apparently no one listens to cassette tapes anymore.

Then there was the biggest hurt of all.  Muppet held my hand as she drove me up the hill to our old swim and tennis club, the place with the Olympic-sized pool so wonderful you can't imagine such a place, even in a drug-addled hallucinatory state.

ouch

The pool sprang a leak a couple years ago.  It will cost over a million dollars to fix the problem so the club has decided not to fix it, and instead pave over it and put in new tennis courts.

 This one may hurt even more than the house thing.

I walked around this pool like a bereaved person walks around a cemetery.  It was so quiet.  I remember the summer sounds of this place back in its heyday -- the lifeguards' whistles, the kids shrieking, the sound of wet feet slapping against pavement. There was soft-serve ice cream at the snack counter and ice-cold air conditioning in the club room, where we kids would go when the "adult swim" whistle sounded and we had nothing to do for 15 whole minutes.

If I had a million dollars I would fix it tomorrow.  Alex would agree without hesitation because I'd look at him with my serious scary eyes.

Alex and I texted each other often while we were away.  The kids had a great time in Quebec and he would regularly send me photos and updates.  As my time in Toledo progressed, my response time to Alex's messages slowed considerably.  He became concerned when his texts of, "Hello? You still there?" were answered with "Childhood is a lie" and "I'm staring into gaping holes where my happiness used to be."

The good news is downtown Toledo has experienced a rebirth. There are a lot of people down there walking around and looking happy about it.  There are new restaurants and bars and baseball stadiums, unheard of back in my youth when downtown was a scary and near-deserted place.

Muppet and I went to lunch at one of the nice new restaurants downtown and, in a wonderful stroke of misfortune, Muppet's angry ex-boyfriend was our waiter.  She spent lunch hiding under the table while I apologized for my shy and socially awkward friend and asked for the specials.

Muppet and I both ordered Cobb salads.  The salads came deconstructed and the waiter/ex-boyfriend asked if we would like him to mix the elements together before serving?  I said, panic-stricken, "No, just leave the salads in pieces and go now!" as Muppet kicked me hard under the table.  When she re-appeared in her seat, she said, "I sure as hell wasn't going to ask him to toss my salad."

That night was my high school reunion.  I went back to Ohio Mom's house and we got all dressed up.

After a quick meet-up and drink with our old besties, we headed to the roadhouse bar where the reunion was held.  Only in Toledo, Ohio does a 20-year high school reunion happen at a biker bar. 

Exactly as it should be

You know what's funny?  Everyone looked exactly the same and acted exactly the same. The same people who cracked me up twenty years ago still crack me up.  The ones I have no idea what to do with on a social level are still complete strangers to me.

There was a photo booth and I spent a lot of time in it

The cocky guy from high school walked around telling everyone the doctors needed to use "the biggest clamp they could find" to circumcise his son.  The girl we all knew would get drunk first got drunk first and was cut off at the bar within the first hour.

Is the fact nobody really changes sad? comforting?  disturbing?  I don't know, I'm just reporting the facts.

The best part about high school reunions is the gossip.  There was a lot of whispering about how so-and-so screwed so-and-so a couple years back and his wife retaliated by screwing so-and-so in the back of their minivan.  Toledo may be a small-ish city but believe me, there's some serious Washington D.C-type  sh*t happening there.

I loved it.  It was a paltry turnout given the size of our class --

 Exhibit A

 

Exhibit B

-- but the people who showed up were good ones.  It was worth it, absolutely worth it, to get back there and see them again.

The next day I said goodbye to Ohio and drove back to Chicago.  I ate a lot of Twizzlers --

And the next morning I flew home, heart full of love for the good people of the Midwest.

 

Always good to see you again, my dear Rainer.

At one point during our visit, as the truth hit me things were not the way I remembered them, I sighed and said to Muppet's parents, "I guess it's true -- you can't go home again."  Muppet Dad responded, "Well of course you can, just don't expect anything to be the same HA HA HA HA."

Fair enough.

Love you,  Toledo.
Love you, childhood in a sinkhole,
MJ